


Doing Alright

by Keibell



Series: Modern Times Rock ‘N’ Roll [1]
Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF, Queen (Band)
Genre: Comfort, Concerts, Father Figures, Music, Other, Platonic Relationships, Present day! Brian and Rog, Sleep Deprivation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-17
Updated: 2019-02-17
Packaged: 2019-10-29 23:15:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17817395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keibell/pseuds/Keibell
Summary: You haven’t slept for a few days, and your new bandmates are not very happy about that.





	Doing Alright

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my new series!! There’s so much romantic/sexual fic around that I thought I’d go somewhere different w/ this and make it purely platonic!! Present day Brian and Roger act as the readers father figures - because I have daddy issues x

Brian and Roger weren’t really sure what to do with you, considering you’d spent the last hour hunched over in the corner of the tour bus under a blanket, fiddling with a games console and making your onscreen character walk around a colourful town in endless loops, chasing butterflies and pulling up animated weeds. In fact, they had started to hear you muttering obscenely to yourself about a ‘neighbour’ whom you affectionately referred to as a ‘stupid, squirrel bitch’, and were becoming increasingly worried about your mental health.

They shared a look over their mugs as you sunk deeper into your covers, puffing out an irritable breath and scowling behind the brightly coloured fabric. You chip away at your nail polish, some obnoxious colour you’d chosen - _and now hated_ \- in a rush before the tour started, nibbling on the exposed nail nervously. The two men watched as you surrounded a quaint-looking little cottage with holes, dropping a small ball marked with an exclamation-point into the hole right on the doorstep before covering it up.

The bus jerked, and so did you, your body slamming into the window and sending your battered old console clattering to the table. You shot up again, stylus caught between your teeth, to check the system over for any damage.

“What are you up to there, Y/N?” Roger asked, taking the break in the silence as an opportunity to check in with you, and you looked up in a panic, headphones slipping down around your neck.

“I- uh, well...” You stammer awkwardly, lifting up the small, rectangular device and waving it in the air. “Playing a game.”

“What game?” Brian asks, and you break a shy smile, pushing your hair back from your face and removing the headphones from around your neck.

“ _Animal Crossing_.” You answer, sinking back into your seat and swinging your legs under the table. You shrug the blanket off, tapping your hand on the seat beside you. “You’d like it Brian, come and see.”

Brian left Roger’s side to sit next to you, folding his long legs under the table and pushing his glasses up his nose to see the small screen you held between your hands. The drummer smiled to himself, picking up the mug of tea in front of him and swirling the last few sips around the bottom. You’d been with them on tour for only a little while, incredibly shy and awkward, and the two of them had come to an agreement that they’d try and draw you out of your shell as much as possible over the next few days, before the first concert.

You were a lovely person, you were just clumsy and eccentric, dancing to the beat of your own drum - _or any drum for that matter_. You’d reminded the two of them so much of John when they’d first met him, all young and unique and full of spark, that they’d chosen you to play bass with them on tour. And you were damn good at it too, not that you liked to acknowledge it that much.

Plus, you could reach the high notes that Roger couldn’t anymore, which he _supposed_ was alright.

And now you were here, currently chattering to _the_ Brian May about the supposedly horrid cartoon squirrel that had moved in next door to your cartoon house in your cartoon town. And the worst part was that Brian seemed completely and utterly _enthralled_.

They’d be lying if they said they didn’t absolutely adore you like their own child (or grandchild, they weren’t _exactly_ sure how old you were) - and they couldn’t help it. You were there, breathing life and excitement into everything, eyes constantly wide with wonder and fascination, and it made the two of them just that little bit giddy. They’d changed the lights around on the drum risers the other day and you’d gushed about it for ten whole minutes, hands grasping at the neck of your bass as you bounced on your heels, babbling into your microphone.

But recently, they’d seen you become a little more worse for wear, and had grown increasingly concerned for you. You weren’t much help to their investigations either, completely dodging both their questions - and eventually _them_ \- when they’d been asking about your health and whatnot.

Because Roger was absolutely certain he hadn’t seen you sleep a wink in the past two days.

While you were all smiles now, perking up for Brian and taking great pride in showing off your fantasy village, you’d become increasingly quiet since the start of the week, the rings around your eyes getting darker and more prominent, your cues getting missed, and basslines getting fumbled, prompting profuse apologies and frustrated scowls to yourself. Your hair was damp now, from a recent shower, and tangled, framing the sunken-in hollows of your cheeks, and the sickly pallor that had washed over your face.

“Y/N.” Roger began softly, and he watched you look up, trailing your sentence off with a stammer. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You shrugged, swallowing thickly and sinking down into the bus seat. “Why?

“Are you sure?” Brian reached out to press his hand against your forehead, and you flinched away, sliding so low in your seat that your head could barely be seen over the table.

“Honestly, I’m fine. Never better!” The quick movement had caused your head to spin, and you blinked hard, trying to stamp the static out of your vision. Your entire body ached in protest - like you were the fucking tin man or something. It was stupid how much sleep you were losing over one small thing, but you couldn’t help but agonise over it, wanting it to be absolutely perfect.

That bloody ‘ _Liar_ ’ bass solo.

You loved John Deacon - you really did - despite having never met him. He was a fantastic musician, and criminally underrated, but this solo was so incredibly fast-paced, and finicky, that even thinking about where your fingers were on the frets nearly brought you to tears. You’d be warming up, fiddling about with notes, when your index finger would accidentally hit the fourteenth fret on the D string, and you’d instantly be launched into the never-ending cycle of notes towards the end of the solo. _Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen_. It was what you heard on repeat when you tried to sleep at night, like some sort of God-awful heartbeat. Hence, the bags under your eyes that were definitely _not_ designer.

You don’t know why they’d decided to change the setlist to add in a few of the less mainstream songs - but then again, they’d had a sudden influx of new fans from ‘ _Bohemian Rhapsody_ ’, and the appreciation for the older _Queen_ albums had reached a new high. ‘ _Liar_ ’ was a banger, but you figured people mostly knew it because it was the one that got incredibly personal on stage between Freddie and John. Thus, it was put on the setlist, and you were subjected to forms of torture you never thought possible - you’d even been actively _avoiding_ your bass. If you fucked it up, then you would’ve come all the way to America for _nothing_ , wasted Brian and Roger’s time, and generally made an absolute tit of yourself. _And then where would you be?_ You’d be back in Brightthorpe playing with your shitty, little tribute band in pubs that barely got any patrons. This could make or break you, this was your one shot at carrying on the legacy John had left behind, damn it. All eyes would be on you. _You couldn’t fuck it up._

Everyone had told you that you’d do alright out on tour - but here you were, barely two seconds in, and you were already very much not _doing alright_.

“If you say so.” Roger hums, finishing his tea and placing the mug in the sink, and you roll your eyes playfully at his condescending tone.

“Come off it, Rog.” Brian stretches out his legs, standing up from his seat. He turns to you, eyes all concerned again, and you try not to grimace. “Y/N, just make sure you’re all ready for tech tomorrow, okay?”

“Will do.” You smile, but it’s pained - and for some unknown reason, you decide to give him the world’s most awkward double thumbs up. _Bloody Hell. This was already a disaster._

You didn’t sleep that night either, hunched over your bass and gritting your teeth harder every time you stumbled on a note.

\- - -

“Mic check, please.” Some bloke in all black calls, and you jerk upright. You could have sworn you were just practising in your room, and now you were here on the stage - _Queen’s stage_ \- with no memory of time passing in between. You glanced to your left to see Roger fiddling with his drums, eyebrows furrowed, and Brian tuning the Red Special. They don’t see you looking incredibly confused and dazed, and you decide that you’re grateful for that. You’re okay. _You at least **look** like you’re doing alright._ “Okay, mic D?”

Roger began to strike each one of his toms and snares, the man in black calling out adjustments to the guy in the tech booth after each drum was played, your winces after each sound going unnoticed. That was something new you learnt, that the microphones were referred to as letters, rather than their instruments. V for vocals, G for guitar, D for drums, P for Piano and-

“B? Mic B.” The man asked, still looking down at his clipboard. The amps were silent, and you sway on your feet, trying not to pass out. “Hello, B? Mic B.”

You blink again, suddenly feeling very faint and light-headed, and you see Brian and Roger share a glance. _A glance? Why are they glancing?_

“B! Bass!” The man snaps, and you finally look up at him, only to see him glaring pointedly at you. You’re confused for a second as to why he’s pissy with you before you remember what instrument you currently have strapped to your body.

Oh, _bollocks._

You’re bass. _You’re B._

“Ah- fuck! Shit, sorry!” You stammer, jerking upright and shaking your head, as if the heavy fatigue would just fall out of your ears. Your voice rings over the speakers, bouncing off of the walls of the _impossibly_ huge arena, and you flinch, suddenly disorientated. Brian frowns as he sees you stumble backwards, before catching yourself and shaking your head again. B? _Did this guy not even know your name?_

“Are you back in the room, B?” The man drawls, his accent grating and unfamiliar, and you bristle with nerves.

“My name is _Y/N_.” You mumble, your voice small and weak. The man huffs again, pointing to the bass in your hands. “It’s not- It’s not ‘B’, I-“

“Just play.”

 _Fuck_ , you needed to focus. _Fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen._

“Yeah, sorry.” You nod your head, letting out a tense breath and looking down at your bass. “Uh, okay- um..”

You play a bass riff, something slow and simple for them to adjust the microphone settings. Brian walks up to the drum risers as you play, looking lost, and taps at the rim of Roger’s hi-hat to get his attention. It rings softly, and the man shoots the two of them a glare.

“Quiet on mic D, please.” He orders, and the two of them nod apologetically, holding up their hands.

“Oi. Rog.” Brian whispers, and the drummer looks over the glasses perched low on his nose. “I’m worried about Y/N.”

“I think their name is B, now, Brian.” Roger eyes the sound man, and twirls his drumstick in his hand, swivelling in his seat to face Brian. “But yeah - you and me, both.”

They take a break from tech for a few minutes and decide to hunt you down for an interrogation, but then there’s a new problem - no one knows where you are. Brian searches the wings, and Roger asks around the crew after you, but everyone just shrugs and says they haven’t seen you. They all call you ‘B’, despite his repetitive correction of your actual name.

They supposed they should have expected it. John always had a tendency to wander off, too - and they did _not_ want another Bali incident on their hands.

“I think that mic check really threw them through a loop, Brian.” Roger mutters, scratching at his beard, and Brian cranes his neck over the techies bustling around to try and spot you. “Everyone’s been really sticking with the ‘B’ thing now, too. It’ll be hard to get rid of that.”

“They haven’t been sleeping properly since we got here, have they?” Queen’s guitarist shoves his hands in his pockets, before descending the stairs from the stage into the arena, Roger following behind. “So, by that logic...”

“What the-Where in the bloody Hell are you going?”

“They’d look for somewhere quiet to have a kip, wouldn’t they?”

“They’re not one of your bloody _hedgehogs_ , Brian!”

Brian hushes him as they weave through the equipment until they reach the back, where the empty flight cases are, and find your bass abandoned on top of one of them. The area is relatively quiet, as the crew is concentrated towards the front of the stage, and Brian begins to look around. Roger narrows his eyes, looking for a note, or something - just in case they _did_ have another Bali incident on their hands. Thankfully, there was nothing of the sort.

“There’s the bass. Where’s the bassist?” Brian hums, and Roger reaches out to pluck at the strings of the bass before Brian stops him, catching his wrist. Before Roger can protest, his mouth falling open in a splutter, Brian cuts him off with a raised finger and a tilt of his head.

“What? _What is it?_ ”

“Shut up. _Listen_.”

They fall silent, and just under the bustle of tech and instruments and chatter, they hear the soft, rhythmic breaths of sleep coming from behind the flight case. They turn to each other and cock an eyebrow, before wheeling it to the side. Lo and behold, there you are, all curled up in a chair and leaning against the wall holding you upright, fast asleep with a soft frown on your face. There’s a notebook in your hands, where the setlist is scrawled in smudged blue biro.

“ _Christ_ ,” Roger says, picking up your bass so he can pack it away safely. “This is worse than we thought.”

Brian crouches down and gently taps you awake with a warm hand on your arm, knitting his eyebrows as you open your eyes and flinch, scrambling away from the two of them with profuse apologies.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry - I really am, I’m sorry-!” You babble, stumbling to your feet and taking the bass from Roger before hurrying towards the arena’s exit, leaving the two of them in the dust behind you.

Brian and Roger don’t see you for the rest of the day.

\- - -

It’s around ten o’clock when they knock on your hotel room door that night, where your back and hands ache from practising for as long as you can remember. You feel as if your body is shutting down on you, and your vision goes dark for a second as you get up to open the door after it booms with three short knocks. The bass solo is still ringing around in your head as you open the door - _fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen._

“Good evening, Y/N.” Brian greets when you open the door, and you blink, dumbfounded. Roger is beside him, smiling away with a kettle and a box of teabags gathered up in his arms.

“Wh-? Brian? Roger?” You jump as you notice the drummer, and your whole body feels like it’s burning up as you realise you’re currently in your pyjamas. _In front of Queen_. Not even your _nice_ pyjamas.

“Or is it ‘B’, now?” Roger chuckles, and you flush red from embarrassment, your mouth opening and closing like a goldfish as you search for something to say. You settle on just sighing and gesturing for them to come in.

“Do you need me to come down for a rehearsal or something?” You ask, sweeping up your bass and setting it down on your bed for later practice, making room for Roger and Brian on the couch. Roger finds an outlet, and plugs the kettle in, puttering about the hotel room in an effort to find mugs.

“Oh, no, no.” The drummer waves you off, searching through the cupboard next to the minibar you hadn’t touched yet, muttering to himself. You frown, raising an eyebrow in confusion and he lets out a huff before humming idly, hands set firmly on his hips. “ _Bloody hotels don’t have kettles_ \- how do you take your tea?”

“Erm, tea? You d-“ You’re interrupted by a clatter of porcelain and a whoop as Roger finally finds the mugs, and Brian speaks up from the sofa, where he’s squinting at a remote through his glasses. The familiar ‘ _boom_ ’ of the Netflix application starting up causes you to whirl around.

“Y/N, what was the name of that charming painter you showed me the other day?”

“You mean Bob Ross? Wh-?”

“Ah, found it!” The soft, jazzy acoustics of ‘ _The Joy of Painting_ ’s theme music cuts you off, and Roger strides over, setting three mugs on the table and pushing down lightly on your shoulders, prompting you to take a seat.

“What are you-“

“You didn’t answer me so I just put in a shit-load of sugar.” Roger interrupts, pressing a hot mug into your hands and settling down on your right, sandwiching you between him and Brian.

The men fall silent, sipping at their tea, and you stare at your mug. Bob Ross sweeps his brush across the canvas, spreading a soft pink over the white gesso, speaking softly, and you already feel your eyes sliding shut. You quickly snap them open, sitting up.

“What the fu- _on Earth_ are you doing here?”

“B, you can swear, we don’t give a fucking monkey’s,” Roger states bluntly, and with a sigh, you resign yourself to the fact that you’re not going to shake the nickname for a while. Brian fiddles with the buttons to get the subtitles to appear on the screen, not quite being able to capture the soul-soothing lilt in Bob’s voice, but replicating each loving sentiment all the same. “Oh! Brian, look, he’s got a squirrel!”

“ _Ah!_ ” Brian restrains himself to a soft, quietly-pleased exclamation, but he practically radiates happiness upon seeing the small creature cradled in the painter’s hands. “So he does!”

“Brian, please- tell me why you’re here, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, your mind blank as you try to find the word you want, lulled into a state of neutrality by Bob’s pleasant voice. “I just- you know...”

“You have to what?”

“Practice. The first show’s tomorrow, and I need to sort this bloody solo out, so...“ You trail off, gesturing around with your hand to punctuate your statement. Brian and Roger turn to you slightly, each of them arching a brow. You feel like you’re in another dimension, halfway between being awake and being asleep.

“Y/N, you look fucking dreadful,” Roger says bluntly, and you hum noncommittally, too tired to properly protest. “Honestly, when was the last time you slept?”

“Dunno.” You feel your body growing heavier and heavier, and you grit your teeth to fight the fatigue screaming in your muscles. “Doesn’t matter, I just need to get this solo right so I can stay.”

Brian pauses beside you, setting his mug down. “So you can stay?”

Something inside of you tells yourself not to say anything else. _They don’t need to worry about you or take care of you - they have their own, more important problems_. Bass players were flexible, and you were hardly gonna be remembered if you fucked tomorrow’s show up, they’d just get someone better to replace you.

But you were so utterly spent that everything came tumbling out.

“Yeah. If I’m shit, you’ll send me home, won’t you?” You murmur, blinking slowly and picking at the seam on your pyjama pants. “I don’t want to go home, Brian. I can’t risk being shit.”

“Y/N. You are _not_ , and _never, ever_ will be shit.” Roger turns to you abruptly, and you jerk upright, blinking rapidly. His voice cuts through the fog in your brain, and you shrink into yourself, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. Brian places a hand on your shoulder, and the weight of it brings you back to Earth, tugging you out of your spiral.

“You can do it. Why else would we ask you to be here?” Brian’s eyes connect with your own, and you can feel them searching you, like he’s staring right into your soul. He must like what he finds there, because he smiles. “We believe in you.”

The weight that’s been pressing down on your shoulders since they asked you to play on the tour feels lighter, and you take your first proper breath in days. _It feels good_. You feel tears well up in your eyes - a combination of pure exhaustion and gratitude for everything they’ve done - and chuckle softly, pawing at your face to brush them away.

“Besides,” Roger continues, setting his mug down and sitting back on the couch with a noise of satisfaction, “you’re probably only fucking it up because you haven’t slept for three days.”

“You think so?”

“I’m certain, Y/N. If you were shit, you’d still be at home.”

You turn back to the television and watch Bob paint for a while, his voice smoothing over all the Hell you’d put yourself through, and you find your eyes falling shut, curling up into the large cushions on the couch. Before you know it, you’re fast asleep on Roger Taylor’s shoulder, and the episode is drawing to a close. Roger rather likes the picture that he’s painted.

“Who’s that?” Roger whispers, gesturing to the screen. Brian turns to see you out cold, your head leaning against the drummer’s arm. His entire left side is stiller than it’s ever been, not wanting to disturb your sleep. He chuckles, and turns the television off, placing the remote down.

“Bob Ross. Y/N showed him to me a few days ago and told me how he always used to help them fall asleep. I’m becoming quite fond of him myself.” He gets up from the couch slowly, as to not wake you, and fetches the hotel blanket draped over the foot of the bed. “I told you it would work.”

“Okay, no need to gloat.” Roger holds your body upright as he rises, before lowering you slowly, placing a cushion under your head. Brian returns to the room, draping the blanket over you, and the two of them make sure you’re properly covered, so you won’t get cold during the night. Then they step back, watching you take a deep breath and snuggle into the blanket.

“If anyone wakes them up before ten, I’m going to personally hunt them down and give them Hell.”

“Rog, they’ll be fine, don’t worry.” Brian chuckles under his breath, before bending down to pat your head softly. “Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Yeah, goodnight, B.”

“ _Jesus_ , Roger, the poor kid was mortified from that-“ They begin to bicker lightly, whispering until they’re out of your room and all the way down the corridor, leaving you to finally sink into one of the deepest sleeps of your life.

\- - -

“Ah! Good to _finally_ see you, Y/N!” Brian teases as you bound through the wings, feeling sprightly and better than you have in days. You grin, bouncing on the balls of your feet and shaking out your arms - your bizarre way of warming up that often earned you glares from your bandmates back home. Roger and Brian simply beam at you. You’d woken up a mere hour before the show, rushing around your hotel room in a panic to get ready before practically sprinting with your bass to the concert, dodging all of the fans lining up inside. Luckily, none of them seemed to recognise you. _Yet._

“You might as well call me B at this point, Brian.” You puff, out of breath from the mad dash around the backstage area, and you pluck at your bass, checking that it was in tune. “I’ve decided I’m embracing it.”

“Good for you!” Roger laughs, clapping a hand around your shoulder, pulling you into a side-hug and you smile so wide that your cheeks hurt. He's warm and soft, and smells like fresh laundry. “You’re looking better.”

“Yeah, and feeling it too!” You nod, pointing happily at the glitter you’d packed around your eyes, covering up the remains of your dark circles. “Sorry I slept in and made everyone worry-“

“Oh, don’t worry about it! It was our doing anyway.” Brian chuckles, before picking up the red special and looping the strap over his shoulder. “Just as long as you’re well rested?”

“Definitely!” You nod, your wide smile softening to one of warmth and sincerity. “Really, though, thank you.”

“Our pleasure.” Roger squeezes your shoulder, tugging your body into his one last time before letting go of it. “And you better be, because it’s showtime.”

From the wings, you see the lights go down, and the entire arena erupts into cheers. You swallow thickly, suddenly forgetting the first note that you’re supposed to play, before you hear the familiar _stomp stomp clap_ of ‘ _We Will Rock You_ ’, and your breath leaves your lungs. _Everything feels so right._

“Well, it’s a bit too late to stop now, isn’t it?” You murmur, and you nod at Roger and Brian one last time before you follow them onstage, the crowd reaching a new volume.

 _Everything goes off without a hitch_. You’re on time, you don’t miss a single cue, and you nail every note of your harmonies. The whole thing is making you understand why John loves to dance on the stage so much, and you break out the signature Deacon two-step, bopping along to the music in a way you hoped would make him proud. You belt out the ‘ _Ay-Oh_ ’s along with the crowd, sporting the biggest grin you’d ever had in your life, and singing so loud that you practically double over. The music surrounds you, and you fall gratefully into its arms.

And then the familiar, tinkling cowbell starts up, and your blood runs cold. 

Roger kicks in with the percussion before you even remember what the lyrics are. You barely know what you’re doing, but everyone else seems to think you are, and that somehow makes the whole situation _worse_. You manage to choke the lyrics out of your throat and stay on beat, but as the song reaches a climax, you barely notice the music anymore, the stadium emptying itself until it’s just a dark room, and you’re blinded by the light shining down on you.

_“All day long.”_

You’re singing before your thoughts have caught up with you, and you feel as if you’re gradually losing control of the situation. You don’t know how you got up to the front of the stage, singing into the same mic as the vocalist to mirror how Freddie and John used to do it, and the crowd screams the lyrics along with you. You feel like you’re not breathing.

_“All day long.”_

You’re singing at the top of your lungs, you’re sure of it, but you can’t hear yourself. You’re drowning, _you have to be_ \- how else could you not be able to breathe?

_“All day long.”_

It feels like you’re alone on the stage - every other noise is barely audible, and it feels like your hands are moving by sheer impulse alone. You’re pressing down on the strings and playing as hard as you can, but it’s all muffled and quiet, barely audible over a steady ringing that had started building in your ears, overpowering the run-up to the solo. Brian’s short guitar interlude finishes with a flourish, and the lights come up on you.

Then the whole thing explodes into vibrant colours around you, your hands flying along the frets and strings with more precision than you’d ever had before. The noise rushes past you like the wind through a tunnel, and you feel Brian and Roger’s supportive gaze in your back. The solo wasn’t under your control by any means - _you were flying purely by the seat of your pants_ \- but it was like your muscle memory had overcome you, each movement sharp and calculated, unlike the sluggish notes of your previous, exhausted practice.

_Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen._

The solo climbs its peak, and you let out a shout at the sheer pressure of it all, barely keeping up with your own fingers as the notes speed up. You reach the end, realising you’ve been holding your breath the whole time, and you suck in the hot, humid air of the stage, relishing in the final wail of the red special.

_Holy shit. You did it._

Overwhelmed by it all, you take the short pause at the end of the solo as an opportunity to whirl around and sprint at full speed up the drum risers, where Roger holds out his hand. You clap it in a hi-five and raise your arms above your head.

“That was alright, that, wasn’t it?” He shouts to you over the drum kit, and you scream back, all of your nerves buzzing with pure adrenaline.

_“Oh my fucking God!”_

Roger laughs loudly in response, spinning his sticks in his hands as he counts in the next chorus.

You’re jumping up and down to the music now, launching yourself off of the drum risers, whooping out of range of your mic in celebration and hollering the final lyrics to the song. It crashes to a close, the three of you syncing up the final note perfectly, and the crowd screams, raising their hands in the air. You ache to reach out and touch them, to grasp each of them and tell them you love them. _God_ , you loved _everything_ right now.

Roger steps out from behind his drums, and the four of you line up on the stage apron to bow, and you’re almost certain you’re crying the glitter off of your face before Brian takes the mic.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, our new bassist; the talented _Y/N L/N_!” Brian calls over his microphone, and you remove your guitar strap, holding your bass by the neck as you rush across the stage to him, where he pulls you into a tight hug. You wrap your arms around his chest, leaving behind copious amounts of holographic glitter on his shirt, but you guessed that he wouldn’t mind. “How fantastic are they, folks?”

He takes your hand, sweeps you into another bow, and then says his goodnights to the crowd.

“Thank you so much! We love you!” You call into the mic, standing on your tiptoes to reach the height Brian was holding it at, and before you know it you’re backstage getting the breath wrung out of you via a Roger Taylor hug.

“Bloody brilliant! I knew it!” He crows in your ear, patting you firmly on the back, and you pull away, wiping away the dried tear-glitter mixture that had caked itself on your cheeks. Brian laughs, ruffling your already mussed hair.

“We’re proud of you, Y/N.” He says, and your heart melts, fresh tears welling up in your eyes before you scrub them away.

“Thank you, but,” You begin, already feeling the adrenaline pumping through your veins begin to fade away, “I think I’m going to go back to bed.”

“Goodnight, B.” They chuckle, and this time you’re awake to hear it. _You love both of them more than you can already describe._

\- - -

Your phone is lit up brighter than the sun when you get back to your hotel room, buzzing constantly with each notification coming through. They all seem to come from Twitter, each detailing a new tweet mentioning your handle.

**‘ok but how cute was the new bassist @yourhandle?? anyone else in love w them??’**

**‘@yourhandle has the disco moves i crave,,, i approve’**

**‘@yourhandle wore all glitter eyeshadow and nailed the liar solo for their first ever concert with queen. a deaky-style big dick move if i ever saw one.’**

Yeah. _You guess that you’re doing alright._

**Author's Note:**

> pls follow my tumblr @rhapso-kei!!


End file.
